


How I Met The Newsies

by Faustitas_B



Series: Newsies OC Week - Fudge drabbles [1]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gen, Not very angsty, OC week is not treating Fudge well, fudge gets beat up, my poor baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 00:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14705483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faustitas_B/pseuds/Faustitas_B
Summary: The first work for Newsies OC week on Tumblr. Theme: how your character first encountered Newsies or how they joined the ranks of the Newsies.In which Fudge makes the worst choice possible and we see the considerate side of Spot Conlon that is often hidden.





	How I Met The Newsies

My first encounter with Newsies hadn't gone as well as you might hope.

Namely, because the first set of Newsies I ran into in my lifetime were a gang of Brooklyn boys. A gang of very angry Brooklyn boys, with an even angrier boy wielding a gold-tipped cane at their head.

At the time, I must've been, what? Ten or so years old? Whatever. I probably looked about seven.  
I had been running with a gang of pickpockets for a few years at this point, but for endangering the lot by being too excessive in what I stole I’d been kicked to the curb.

I remember being terrified. Nearly as much as I had been the night I fled from the family home.  
I had ran with them since I'd first arrived into New York City and they had abandoned me without a second thought to the streets I had been sheltered from.

Running with pickpockets was easy, especially for someone like me. I didn't necessarily want to take the stuff I did, but it was easier considering my proficiency with the art of taking things and being a generic, scruffy, unnoticeable child.   
The rules were as follows, pick a target, focus on the people who look like they have somewhere to be, they're in a rush and will be less likely to notice being jostled in a crowd or feeling their pockets suddenly become lighter. 

Never pick someone too wealthy, nor anyone who stands out too much from the generic crowd- people are more likely to be looking at them and by extension, you when you lighten their pockets.

Never, go after another street kid. The final rule was for numerous reasons, mess up and they'll notice and soak you 'til you can barely walk, they could be part of a gang and the unofficial sentimental reason of - they don't have much to take and that penny means far more to them than a dollar does to a rich fella.

The issue leading to my encounter was that I'd broken a few of these rules at once.  
One- the guy I stole from was idle on a street corner.   
Two- he was wearing bright red suspenders, and had a too-long cane tucked into his belt loops. Noticeable.  
Three- he was a street kid. No doubt about it. Not that in my desperation I had noticed the pile of papers- or been aware of the fact that minutes earlier he had been hawking them to the public and had only just settled down for a break.

So the tiny version of me thought up my plan, and knocked into him at high speed.  
The fake and excessive waterworks were already on, accompanied by loud sniffles and a blurted apology. One hand clung to his shirt as I pulled myself up whilst another snaked to his pocket. Another piece of common knowledge, better off Newsies would have wallets, but would carry them in their pockets or paper bags. This Newsie had an above-average amount of papers and wasn't holding any cash, nor did anything spill when I had crashed into him, so he had a wallet. Or at least a pouch.

I found my prize and grabbed it, hiding it in the folds of my shirt as I scrunched my arms to my chest and repeated my earlier apology at a louder volume.

The Newsie had glared at me, muttering something inaudible before grunting out a curt,  
“Don't let it happen again.”

I had made it halfway down the block before I heard a loud cry of “SHIT” and frantic footsteps following me up the street.

I turned to look at my pursuer, who was quickly catching up, having been joined along the way by another tough looking boy already.

I started to run, turning the corner into the market and beginning to twist and weave through the crowds of people milling around the various stalls. At least I had gained one thing from the gang I'd worked with- being able to duck into a crowd was a useful skill.

I'd spoken too soon, I narrowly avoided being taken out by a woman on a bicycle wearing the biggest pair of cycling pants I had ever seen.

I stumbled to avoid her and charged out of the crowd at the other end of the market, slowing my pace as I exited and rolling up my cap, sliding it into the belt loops of my pants to hold it securely. People generally looked for what stood out about you most- a hat makes you more identifiable than simply having brown hair or being young.

I tried to blend in as I walked, the abrupt change of pace contrasting wildly to the pounding heart and gasping breaths.  
Suffice to say I'd picked the wrong target.  
Luckily I had gotten away, or so I had thought in my moment of ignorance.

I had begun to map out my route to the rooftop I'd been hiding on when my collar was snatched and the momentum caused my head and upper body to snap backwards with a force.

I was staring into the furious eyes of a boy who was at the least, two years older than me.   
Piercing, furious, slate-gray eyes were the reply of my captor.

He spoke, carefully and clearly.  
“Found ya”. It was said like the signing of a death warrant.

He caught my arm and pulled me out of the street, to the entrance of a nearby alley. 

“I want it back. Give it to me.”   
I was shivering at this point, but who could blame me. I was scrawny and weak, and this intimidating boy armed with a very-hard-looking cane had full control over the situation.

I wordlessly produced it, handing it over solemnly.  
He smiled, barely.  
“That's the stuff. Sorry for this kid, but I can't let anyone know a little kid got away with stealin’ from somebody like me, 'specially if I want to be leader anytime soon”.

Looking back, I'm glad he didn't choose to use the cane in that moment. It would've been far more painful and could've broken bones. But the beating I got for that, especially when the other boys who had seen him running showed up, hadn't exactly given me a good first impression of Newsies. God, those bruises felt like they lasted for weeks.

He had waited for the others to leave, muttered an apology and left a few coins on the ground next to me. Of all things I hadn't expected that. That act of kindness wrapped in pain had been a recurring memory afterwards every time I thought of stealing from another street kid.

In the following three years I avoided both Newsies and Brooklyn as much as possible, essentially convinced that they were all out for my blood despite the bittersweet ending to the experience. I was upstanding for a little while, even worked in a factory with my best friend at the time.

Little did I know I would only be fully introduced to my best friend- who just so happened to be a Newsie- after he had already broken my nose in a convoluted escape plan. And that I would end up becoming the very thing I spent three years fearing like nothing else. Four years is a lot of time to change when you're a kid.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a response to the first prompt of OC week, featuring Fudge - the POV character- aka my baby whomst I love but regularly torture in my writing whoops. Seriously, I love Fudge so much but any and all writing that so much as mentions them has at least some angst in there somewhere.


End file.
